Beyond Nocturne Ch. 03

"OF THIRST AND HUNGER"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

***

"Holy shit," Michael said into his handkerchief as he stepped over the mangled corpse of Larry Crispin. The 45-year-old mortician's body was sticky with blood, leaning against the wall where he had been thrown. The wall behind him was cracked, indicating whoever did it was strong enough to heave a 250 pound man across the room like a rag doll. Every orifice on his face was caked with blood; his eyes two bloodshot orbs nestled lifelessly in their sockets. Michael looked up at the writing above the corpse again and could see that it was not blood as he previously thought, but lipstick. Lying beside Larry on the floor was the stick in question, it's normally beveled tip flat and ruined.

"This man is a murderer, he killed a prostitute tonight as he has many other women. Now he's burning in Hell," Michael read, sitting on his haunches as the police and coroners moved about their business.

"Detective Wolverton," a voice from behind him called.

"Rossetti, what've you got for me?" Michael stood up, ignoring the smell of stool and urine that the victim had released shortly after his death. The metallic smell of blood didn't help either, and Michael was careful not to step in any if he could help it. You never could tell who had a bug these days, and blood was as dangerous as a loaded gun.

"Check out the shoe box," Rossetti pointed with his gloved hand to the open box on the bed, displayed and clearly filled with items of a dubious nature. Michael fingered through it lightly, finding locks of hair, fingers, jewelry, and newspaper clippings.

"Fuck me running," Michael closed his eyes in disgust, "Are those eyeballs?"

"Yeah," Rossetti grimaced.

"Any chance this could have been planted?"

Rossetti shrugged. "Sure, it could have. But the victim's prints are all over the box, and I'll bet we find his prints on the items inside and on the baggies themselves. I checked the writing against some paperwork he had on his desk, and I'd say it's a match. We won't know for sure until forensics comes through."

Michael noticed one of the articles sticking up slightly from the bottom of the box. He pulled it out gently. It was a newspaper clipping featuring an article about a police raid on a whore house in Oakland, the title reading "Police Bust Prostitution Enterprise." In the photo above the story, there were several police and SWAT officers hauling prostitutes away in cuffs. The one closest to the camera was a stunning blonde woman in a tight black dress. Mr. Crispin had apparently liked her, because her face was circled with a red pen mark.

"This one isn't in a baggy," Michael muttered, flipping through the zip lock bags to see if one was missing an article.

"Yeah?"

"Well, if this guy was a serial killer," Michael opened the baggy marked 'Julia, 06-13-2002' and gently removed the newspaper clipping inside. The victim, Julia Marks, was featured in article covering the opening of her used bookstore downtown. Her face, smiling and unaware of the evil about to befall her, was also circled in red ink. Michael continued, "If he was a killer, then he picked out his victims carefully from the newspaper."

"Holy shit." Rossetti said.

"Yeah, and this blonde in the picture was probably going to be next on his hit list. That's why there's no memento from her in a plastic bag... and why this article isn't in a bag. He didn't get to finish."

"I can run this by the boys, see if they can match her up. She obviously has a record, so it shouldn't be too hard," Rossetti said, looking at the box and feeling his stomach turn.

Michael frowned. "But the message on the wall said specifically that he killed a prostitute tonight. And there was a purse here, but no I.D. in it. If he did kill her, where's the body?"

"Maybe he had a partner? And besides, it's not uncommon for a whore not to bring her I.D with her on a job."

"Maybe," Michael said to himself as he walked around the bedroom, looking at the floor. He saw shattered glass all over the carpet near the window. The curtain billowed gently in the morning breeze.

"Maybe his partner turned on him," Rossetti offered.

"Maybe."

Rossetti glanced over at the broken glass. "What're you seeing, Mike?"

"This window has broken in, not out. Someone crashed through this window," Michael leaned out the window, hands braced against the sill. He looked up the side of the building and then down into the alley below, "It's a five story jump up here either which way, and the fire escape is across the alley twenty feet away. Kind of unsafe not have one here, don't you think?"

"There's a fire escape by the living room window," Rossetti observed. "Maybe the killer came in the living room window?"

Michael turned to one of the uniformed patrolmen standing in the doorway. The nameplate on his uniform read 'Mitchell.' He was a portly cop and from the look on his broad face he wasn't in a very good mood.

"Officer Mitchell?" Michael asked.

"Sir?" Mitchell stepped forward.

"You were the first one here, right?"

"Yes, detective," Mitchell nodded, his sour demeanor holding steady.

"Was the living room window locked?"

"Yes sir," Mitchell nodded, "The only open window is this one here in the bedroom."

"Thank you, Officer," Michael dismissed him.

"Maybe someone swung in from the roof on a rope," Rossetti chuckled, "Ever see 'Die Hard'?"

Michael laughed as much as he could. He needed to, even if it was a little. Michael shook his head, his mind and body still reeling from the death of his only brother the night before. His thoughts kept fixating on Steve, the way he looked on the slab. His dead, pale face and that white skin. And then there was the strange wound on his neck. He kept thinking it looked like someone had bitten him. Bit him hard.

'I can't afford distractions right now,' he thought, shoving his dead brother away as best he could. Michael stretched his back and returned to his partner.

Michael looked back at the window. "That's one hell of jump."

"Let forensics do their thing," he said as he eyed the blood on the bed, "This shit is going to be hardcore and I need some breakfast before I can do any police work."

"Krispy Kreme?" Rossetti asked hopefully.

"Now where else would an honest cop eat, Rossetti?"

"Dunkin' Donuts," Rossetti said as he pulled off his latex gloves, balled them up and tossed them in the trash bag by the forensics specialist, "But that was before Krispy Kreme."

Michael paused for a moment in the living room and looked around. He said, "You know whose M.O. this sounds like, don't you?"

Rossetti nodded. "Yep."

"Maybe I'm wrong?"

"Maybe."

"It's a pretty fucking thin guess, right?"

"Anorexic."

Michael sighed. "FUBAR?"

"Definitely."

Michael cringed as the smell of feces and death wafted past his nose again. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Rossetti's cell phone rang suddenly.

"Hello?" he said into the phone. Michael watched his expression go from anticipation for donuts to looking like he was ready to shit himself. Rossettu looked briefly to his partner and then back again at the floor.

"Are you sure?" Rossetti frowned, "Ah shit. Okay, we'll be right there."

"What's going on?" Michael asked, though he was certain he didn't want to know.

"Something happened at the morgue a little while ago," Rossetti turned off the phone and put in back in his overcoat, "Your brother's body is missing."

"Let's go," Michael hurried out the door.

"Fuck," Rossetti said, following Michael out as the crime scene photographer's flash bulbs lit up the apartment. It was only five in the morning, and from the looks of it, it was going to be a one long day.

***

In the candlelight, Lydia sat in her chair and watched Maricel closely. The young woman was in the throes of the change, the turning from her humanity to something darker and far more complicated. When they had arrived, Lydia took care to gently set her on the bed while removing the blankets she had wrapped her in. There was no point to dressing her yet, as she would likely tear her clothes off during the transformation. She tossed the blood soaked blankets into the corner.

Maricel's blonde hair seemed to glow with it's own fire as she moaned and twisted on the bed, her hands digging into the blankets while her eyes darted impossibly fast under her lids. Her nipples were erected to long points, her skin raised with goose pimples as the virus that caused vampirism changed her body and cured her of the disease Larry had given her.

Lydia had changed into her "day clothes," a smart black business suit and skirt with her ID tag that identified her as the secretary of records at the San Francisco Museum of Art. From sunrise to sunset, she worked in the basement library, cataloguing paintings and maintaining the records of the prestigious institution. The position had been granted to her by one of the elders amongst the vampire nation, a secret society for a secret race. Their connections ran all over the world, and into the highest places of power.

As a favor for her past contributions to the society, she was given this job. The elders had made sure to include an office for her, which in reality was her home. It had enough of the basic amenities to keep her happy including a bathroom and a small kitchenette. There were no windows, which suited Lydia just fine. It was her home, a place few had seen and now, for the time being, home to Maricel as well.

No one really ever bothered her down here in the basement unless it was necessary. Any hopes of socializing her co-workers had harbored initially were dashed by her anti-social behavior. The most business she ever saw in a day was when some intern had to come down and retrieve a file or book. Of course, Mr. Geer would visit her on occasion to check in. Geer was the curator of the Museum and a familiar to the head of the society, Demeras. Any interference from outside elements that might threaten Lydia was Geer's responsibility.

It was almost eight o'clock, and she would have to begin her shift, if for no other reason than to keep up appearances. Her mind felt tired from the previous night, and her body was sore from the sexual encounter with Steve. Lydia fought back the persistent tightness in her throat as she thought of him again. The sex had been outrageously good, and the first in such a long time. It had touched her and awakened a craving inside, a craving as powerful as the guilt she still harbored from his final words of "I love you."

Maricel moaned loudly as if she were being stimulated sexually. Lydia knew that in the midst of the pain one could feel during the turning, there was also a sexual charge, a surge that caused many turnees to orgasm repeatedly as the virus affected the reproductive organs. She recalled her own turning, that night on her bed, naked like Maricel was now, feeling her blood burn and yet overpowered by the sensation of her clit being stimulated to an unbearably high plateau. She remembered the power of the orgasms that followed, all of them as intense as the one that had rocked her during her encounter with Steve three centuries later. She had tried to keep count, but after the tenth roared through, she lost consciousness.

This was how she had spent her 25th birthday, her only gift the burden of immortality from a man she hated.

Lydia adjusted her position in the chair, feeling a wet spot in her panties and nipples hard again. The bed that next morning when she awoke was soaked with her fluid, cold and telling of the aftermath of her transformation. Lydia remembered it all so clearly as she watched Maricel, the feelings of déjà vu powerful and demanding.

Now Maricel was in that same place, and her moans were getting louder and louder as she coped with it. Lydia tried to distract herself from the noise, trying not to be aroused by the carnality of the process. She had never turned a person until now, never once in her three hundred years of immortality had she watched a conversion of her own doing.

"Lydia," Maricel whispered, looking at her from the bed. Her eyes had gone white, the color hidden from view as the virus took her eyes and changed them.

"Yes," Lydia said softly, trying not to betray her discomfort.

"I can feel you," she said as she ran her hands over her breasts, up her neck and into her hair, "I can feel you."

"What do you mean?" Lydia asked, though she couldn't block out the lust Maricel felt over her, the blatant sexual need she had for her. Lydia had sensed an attraction when she first met her, but she never imagined it would be this powerful. Lydia tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, but somehow they kept invading her, tempting her in a way she had never tempted before. It was different from what she had felt with Steve, in some ways more forbidden as she had always considered herself a heterosexual.

"I can feel your thoughts," Maricel moaned, rubbing her nipples and licking her lips. As she smiled at Lydia, her fangs were revealed in the candlelight, glistening and fresh. Lydia resisted as best she could, but the hunger that Steve had unleashed inside her was demanding attention again, in a way that she had only associated with the thirst for blood. She felt herself succumbing to it as she let her eyes roam over every hill and valley of Maricel's toned body. The memories of the moment she bit her, the blood trickling between their naked breasts and creating a sliding friction that had made Maricel gasp came flooding back.

"Can you?" Lydia asked, her voice betraying her calm demeanor as she crossed her legs, the sensation of her wet sex being moved slightly sending a shiver through her body.

"Yes, you want me..."

"No, I don't," Lydia lied and looked away, and then felt someone probing into her mind. It was Maricel, feeding her images of herself naked and kissing her. Lydia jumped from the shock of the intrusion, realizing that a part of herself, the telepathy she believed so unique had passed to Maricel. She was manipulating Lydia as she had many others on countless occasions. The effect was immediate as she felt her cheeks blush hotly.

A taste of her own medicine so to speak.

"Don't you?"

"I-" Lydia began and then stopped as Maricel sat up, her legs open wide to reveal her cleanly shaved vagina, as wet and glistening as her fangs had been. She began massaging her clit, her milky, pupiless eyes somehow fixed on Lydia. Lydia could not resist any longer and walked over to Maricel, her eyes filled with excitement and want.

"I can't help myself," Lydia said as she unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it aside, "I can't stop this...."

"I know," Maricel hissed as her face came to eye level with Lydia's fully round breasts. She massaged them through the fabric, and Lydia moaned against her lips softly. Her heart was pounding in her ears as Maricel undid her blouse and tossed it aside. Lydia placed her hands on Maricel's shoulders as she kicked off her shoes and let her skirt fall to the floor, leaving her in only her black lace panties and bra. Maricel began kissing her breasts through the fabric, letting her fangs gently rub across Lydia's nipples. And then she cut one of the straps loose as the razor sharp fang caught fabric.

Lydia ran her hands over Maricel's neck and shoulders, feeling the twin puncture wounds she had left earlier that morning. Lydia caught her fang on the bra strap and cut it as well, pulling down the cups of Lydia's bra and exposing her large, creamy breasts. If she had been unsure before of what she was doing, Lydia had now shed off the uncertainty as Maricel sucked her right nipple into her mouth and rolled her tongue over it.

Lydia gasped and ran her hand through Maricel's hair, lost in the feeling and need. Her fangs bit into her lip as she enjoyed Maricel's toying of her breasts, her pussy now soaking wet. Maricel sensed this pulled Lydia to the bed so they were lying side-by-side, breasts pressed against each other, arms holding each other. Maricel kissed Lydia passionately as her hand slid down her side, caressing her ass and then to her crotch. Lydia opened her legs with no resistance and slid her panties off.

Maricel dragged her tongue down Lydia's chest, between her breasts and over the dividing line of her stomach, past her navel where she planted hot, wet kisses. Lydia moaned again, loving the feeling of her lips and tongue on her body. Maricel then licked her way down to Lydia's outer lips, which were full and wet, casting off a sweet musk. She licked her pussy slowly, being sure to let the tip of her tongue penetrate her just enough to feel the slick interior.

Maricel fingered her self as her tongue dove into Lydia, exploring her and pleasuring her. Lydia's hips bucked a little as she began riding Maricel's tongue. Lydia reached into Maricel's mind and began stimulating her as she had done her, erotic and passionate thoughts swimming between the two. Before long, Lydia orgasmed so hard she screamed, her rationality stolen by the wave of lust sweeping her away. Maricel felt the orgasm in her mind, and her body reacted accordingly. Her hips spasmed as the orgasm rocked her body and climaxed with a hot gush of vaginal fluid that soaked her thighs and pooled on the bed.

"Maricel?" Lydia managed, staring at the ceiling, her body shaking.

There was no reply as Lydia sat up to find her new friend has slipped back into her deep sleep of the turning. Her lips were wet with Lydia's own come, and she wiped her off, cleaning them both up. She sat for a while on the edge of her bed naked as Maricel moaned and mumbled incoherently. The last 12 hours had been insanely out of the ordinary, and now she found herself in the position of not only having been intimate with a man, but with a woman also. And she knew neither one of them, nor kept any true love for them. Only pity.

Lydia put her clothes back on, checked herself in the bathroom mirror and went to work.

***

Michael wanted to scream.

He wanted to do anything to express how fucking angry he was.

"What the fuck happened?" he asked, stepping around the massive pool of blood that had collected on the floor of the autopsy room.

"We're not sure yet, sir," Officer Wynn said. His face was blushed and embarrassed, eyes filled with more than a little fear.

"So my brother just up and walked out of here, is that what you're telling me?" Michael looked to the overturned cart and the remains of Dr. Standish and the guard who had come to help him. The guard's head was still in the corner of the cold, sterile room. The eyes were popped open wide in an expression of his final moments of life. His tongue was poking out in a grotesque display of the power who ever had ripped his head from his possessed.

"Someone did this by hand?" Rossetti frowned. He was kneeled by the body of Dr. Standish. The old man had been mangled, his limbs and body twisted and broken into crazy angles. Rossetti shook his head, "Jesus, Mike."

"Okay, did the security cameras get anything?" Michael asked.

Officer Wynn shook his head cautiously, "Maintenance was servicing everything from this floor up when it happened."

"Now how's that for timing?" Michael cursed.

"Go easy, Mike," Rossetti said diplomatically as he stood up, "We're all on the same side here."

Michael paused for a moment and then looked to Officer Wynn, "I'm sorry, Officer. Bad morning."

Officer Wynn nodded. "For us all."

"And no one saw anything? No one up front?"

Rossetti spoke up, "We've got people in the surrounding buildings asking questions. It'll take time."

Michael pulled Rossetti aside to the far side of the room, excusing themselves from the other officers and investigators. Rossetti could hardly bare to look at Standish. The doctor had been there since he began with the force. He was just a sweet, pleasant old man who never did anyone any harm. He was a widower, a father of three, a grandfather of eight. He often listened to Rossetti when he just had to talk to someone else besides his wife. That was Standish in a nutshell, a good listener.